


These words of Rage

by hillbillied



Series: Donald Malarkey never went to mass [9]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Crisis of Faith, Episode: s01e07 The Breaking Point, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Jewish Character, M/M, Probably Christian blasphemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 19:56:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6128374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hillbillied/pseuds/hillbillied
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Bible's pages are written in <i>German.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	These words of Rage

**Author's Note:**

> I will complete this series if it's the last thing I do!  
> again, the support is always appreciated, whether it's kudos, likes on tumblr, or the occasional comment! you guys have been great!

They take Foy. And then they take the next town. And the next. It's the same each, and every time. They lose men. They carry away wounded.

They bleed.

They gain territory. They receive the Colonel's long dried-up praise. They dig in, and they move on.

And all with no news, no fixed orders, telling when they will be taken off the line.

 

 

 

Foy was an ugly town. All blistered bricks and dust, mixed with snow and mud. It was dirty, and the foxholes and craters at its border made for haunting decoration. A place that looked as though it had never seen sunshine, never seen the glowing light of a summer's day.

Never seen weather to match a cheerful man's smile.

Hardly a great prize. And certainly not worth the lives it took to capture it.

The church in the center of their most recent town is little better. Birds beat their wings among the splintering rafters. Bright light, from a sky as grey as the hinge plate of his carbine, looms through the cracks. Roof tiles, huge stone slabs, are missing from overhead. The long streams of light cast across the broken pews might have been beautiful, if they were the warm yellow of the sun.

They are a cold grey instead, and instill only feelings of regret.

Don has never been to mass. Not at home in Oregon, nor under the shadow of Currahee. Not in England, not in France, not in Holland. He has rarely stepped over the threshold of a church, and he has never lingered more than the slimmest of minutes.

Entering the church here, in this nameless town smothered in white, is entirely foreign to him. _Of course it is_ , he needs reminding. He is not Christian; this is not something he ought to know.

Somehow that doesn't shake the feeling of ignorance that consumes him. Like it is expected - _demanded_ \- of him to know the ins and outs of a faith that is not his.

Nobody is ever expected to know the customs of a synagogue. Fuck, most people are expected to avoid them.

Fractured wooden boards creak under his weight as he lowers himself to sit on one of the remaining pews, those which haven't been plundered for fire wood or reinforcing cover. It's a nice reprieve - sitting down, not being inside the crippled church - one that takes the weight from his aching feet long enough for him to sigh in contentment.

He does not remove his helmet.

Though that is something he knows he is expected to do, it is a custom he actively refuses.

That is not his way. For him, that is not how respect is shown. And to do it would feel fake, another pretense. There is no pretending before God - whether yours or otherwise. At least, that's the logic Don supplies himself with. It's enough to keep him grounded, enough to open his eyes and survey the building.

Everything is broken. The decorations chipped and peeling, frescoes lost to burst walls and raining shells. The floor is a mess of dried blood smears and the dark scrapes of dragged artillery. Pieces of discarded uniform poke out from around his feet, along with torn paper and the charred remains of fire pits.

It doesn't look like a place of prayer.

Don has never been to mass. But today is a Sunday, he knows. He has been counting the days, even without Skip there to remind him.

His hand reaches out, falls upon the battered book tucked into the empty pew of the row in front. The pages are hanging loose and the leather that binds the deserted bible is flaking. Only the tiny golden cross on the cover draws attention to the pitiful looking item, coaxing Malark's fingers over its spine and along the paper within.

He opens it with a caution that should have been used handling a landmine.

Finding the Lord's Prayer should be as simple as Skip had always implied. Repeating something every mass, it must be an important piece of script; It must be easy to find.

Skip had always uttered it with such sincerity. It was as important to him as it was to any service, and Don is determined to find it. To conduct whatever bastardization of a mass he is currently failing to recreate.

The birds above squawk and beat their wings. They take off into the endless grey sky peaking through the missing rafters, disappearing as silence settles back over the church.

And still, Don can't find what he's looking for.

It takes him longer than it should - his fingers slowing to a halt over page 134 - to realize it is not ignorance or stupidity that's hindering him.

It's the book itself.

The Bible's pages are written in German _._

 

 

 

 

The old church is quiet. Has been since the bombs stopped falling, since the artillery fell silent. Even in ruin, it is a peaceful place. Even with cracking walls and barely enough roof left for shelter, it is still a home to tranquility.

Up until that moment, at least.

 

 

 

 

The roar that echoes off the crumbling stone is that of a wild animal - enraged and desperate and _hurting_. A cry of pain and anger, a terrible mix that forms a loud snarl of hatred to fill the church. A heart-wrenching smack follows suit, the frail body of the bible slamming against the floor as its cover tears and skids out of sight.

Silence reigns once more, yet it's unable to cover the ragged breathing that ignites steam in the freezing air. The quiet tries desperately to return, to envelope the building, but Don won't let it. His panting does not slow, his fists refusing to unclench as he stares furiously across the fractured tiles, following the discarded book.

The first _crack_ in his resolve.

"Fuck you." It's pathetic, and he can hear it - how his voice threatens to shake and he can only hiss out his curses, " _Fuck you!_ "

He shouts it this time, eyes turned upwards, across the devastated pews and all the way to the central arching window. There is no glass, no fine colours. And there is no cross, either.

Don directs his fury there regardless.

"Some God you are." Any sense is lost on him now, his voice made of only bitterness and loathing, "Why can't you send help when it's actually _needed_?"

The empty window gives no response - as he should have expected. Somehow, it only makes Malark _angrier_.

"What kind of God can't protect _good people_?" His cries become shouts, screaming across the empty building, "What kind of fuckin' _God_ leaves someone like _him_ to rot in a fuckin' ditch?!"

Quiet is his only reply.

Don can't contain it, even as the shame in his mind erupts - reminds him that this is not the answer, that this is not what his friends would want for him. It is overrun by flames.

"He never missed a mass." Malark snarls, through gritted teeth and fingers now digging into the broken pews, " _Never_. Not once. Not even in a fuckin' _war zone_!"

He doesn't know what he's doing, can't recognize through his anger that he's ripped the frail back from the pew. Can't see himself throw the desecrated piece of wood across the room with a clatter.

"He _prayed_ and _preached_ an' sung your praises-!" Another piece of rubble, discarded with a bellowing smack against the far wall, "Was a fuckin' Alter Boy and _all_!"

His boot crashes through the front pew, striking the bench repeatedly until it crumbles under his heel.

"Was the _best friend_ I ever had an' he was a fuckin' _Saint_!"

Don's gaze turns back to the archway. Towering above him, its glass missing and a void stood before it where the cross should sit. It stands still, and gives him no reply. He sends a brick through its remaining colours anyway, thrown with a yell and a satisfying crash.

_Silence_.

" _What more do you want_?" He whispers, chest heaving as his voice cracks, "What _more_ do you _want_?!"

This time, the quiet gives him an answer.

The smallest sound of crunching stone, of shattered glass under firm boots. An echo from the church's doorway.

Malark turns sharply, eyes wide, as if he expected a fight. As if he expected an enemy.

He's greeted by a familiar face - wearing an unfamiliar expression.

A look of silent shock masks Winter's features, his wide-eyed stare meeting Don's across the rubble. Another piece of wood clatters to the floor, falling from Malark's hand as he feels his muscles slump, all of their anger suddenly forgotten. He hangs his head, hiding beneath the rim of his helmet.

There are no words for him to say. No excuse he can provide, and no just explanation.

Don stands in silence, shoulders trembling as he shuts his eyes. To calm himself - or maybe because he can't bring himself to look Winters in the eye. Either way, it has his nails digging into his palms.

The crunch of boots is the only warning given before Malark feels a firm hand clasp his shoulder. A comforting pressure, one that holds tight and assures him it won't let go. _It won't let him fall._

Don's hand comes up to cover his face, to shield his eyes as he shakes, fingers pressed against his skin.

The grip on his shoulder squeezes once in reassurance, then slowly and steadily guides him from the church - one step at a time.

 

 

 

 

Winters tells him later, when they are finally preparing to leave, that God will forgive him. 

That he shouldn't worry about Jesus damning him or the possible spiritual repercussions of forcing his boot through a church pew. In the officer's kind words, ' _No matter what denomination he is, he will surely be forgiven_.'

"Repentance is always an option. And I'm sure it can wait until we're home." Winters says in comfort, having the good graces to speak quietly. Making sure no one can hear and the incident is never mentioned to anyone. (Morale is rock-bottom as it is.)

And in a moment of weakness, Don smirks. As his anger galvanizes itself and resurfaces as bitterness, he can only smile.

"Repentance isn't an option for me, sir." The rim of Malark's helmet once again shields him as he hangs his head. Not quickly enough to miss the surprise and sorrow that ignites in the other man's eyes, however. "Because I don't feel guilty."

He explains that he doesn't feel guilty because it is not _his_ God. He explains that he doesn't want forgiveness becase he doesn't think he's done anything wrong. He explains - through all the heartache and exhaustion in his voice - that he will never, _ever_ understand this 'Jesus' because surely, _surely_ , Skip was someone worth saving.

Was someone worth making an exception for.

Winters is a smart man. A good man, a strong man. He catches on fast and his eyes widen for a moment, transfixed in realization. Just for a moment, before he squeezes Don's shoulder once again. It's only the smallest of contacts, but Malark prays for more.

"Does _your_ God make exceptions, then?" The captain asks. It's not malicious; Dick could never play Devil's advocate.

So, Don simply sighs. Just shakes his head and smiles again, a little less bitterly this time.

"No, sir." He says, " _But we don't expect him to_."

**Author's Note:**

> so the end paragraph was actually added later. this part originally finished simply with Winters leading Don out of the church, but I wanted to be a little more explicit in saying that Winters now knows the reasoning behind Don's outburst. and that he's Jewish.  
> because I was thinking about how people remain faithful even after the worst has happened to them. (and, let's be real, the worst of the worst has happened to Jewish people.) and I think it's because we don't expect different. we don't expect miracles or angels or shining choirs of heaven; we expect to pull ourselves through and survive. I don't know, it was just a thought I had.
> 
> anyway - this series will be ending soon. thanks for sticking with it thus far!


End file.
